


the new normal

by knight_enchanter



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Discussions of mental illness, Hurt/Comfort, Including But Not Limited To - Freeform, M/M, depression and PTSD, first chapter is angst heavy but the second chapter will be porn with feelings, honestly episode 13.10 made me sad and this is how i'm dealing with it you're welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_enchanter/pseuds/knight_enchanter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>frank dufresne is many things. unlovable is not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as porn with feelings and then episode 13.10 happened during e3 week and my sad little heart was so overwhelmed by so many feelings at once i had to get them out
> 
> this chapter is pretty heavy but the next one should be (somewhat) lighter. it has a hopeful ending i promise. at least that's what i have planned
> 
> if u like doc and wash in various states of boyfriend...ness...... then come say hello on my tumblr @schneezusweiss! i promise i don't bite! (a very rough, shorter version of this fic was posted there earlier this week. it's since undergone significant lengthening and revision.)

There are few things Doc likes more than rain. Years in Blood Gulch’s oppressive, stagnant heat made him eager for cooler weather – the move to Valhalla was more than welcome, as was the break from constant sweating when he was out of his armor. The long trek through the desert got old quickly, as did sand in unwelcome places.

So he counts himself lucky that he can wake to the soft sound of rain on his roof and windows, with Wash wrapped firmly around him to keep him just warm enough to be comfortable. He stretches a bit and shifts in Wash’s arms, carefully so he doesn’t wake him; Wash is a fitful, inconsistent sleeper, prone to both insomnia and nightmares, and the dark circles under his eyes remain, though they’ve faded with time.

Wash complained about them, once, said they made him look older and scarier than he actually was. Doc had done little more than kiss the graying hair at his temple and the sensitive skin beneath his eyes, and the complaints decreased almost to nothing. He kisses them often. He would kiss them now, if Wash had already woken. Instead, he shifts again, this time completely out of the warmth of their embrace, and slips out of their bed to sit at the windowsill.

The rain is constant now, growing from a soft drizzle to a downpour in the span of time it takes him to reach the window. The spot he sits on is chilled, and he shivers. He’ll have to turn up the heat or stoke the smoldering embers in the fireplace soon if he wants to be comfortable.

Behind him, Wash turns in their bed and mumbles quietly in his sleep, and Doc sends a smile in his direction. The soldier had slept well last night. Doc had not fared as well.

He shifts his gaze to the mirror on the wall. He’s got his own under-eye circles now, dark enough to give even Wash pause. His attention, growing ever shorter in span with each day, shifts back outside to the rain. He considers ramming his fist through the window; it’s only the sound of Wash finally waking behind him that quells the thought.

 

-

 

There is a hidden, festering rage coiling inside him, lying in wait in the back of his head until it can spill out, unbidden, from between his teeth, past lips that were built for love.

 

-

 

“Come to bed.”

Wash’s voice is soft and sleepy when it curls around the medic’s ear, tugging him from the bathroom where he’s just finished brushing his teeth. He spares one last glance at his reflection. The circles beneath his eyes are darker, deeper, standing out even against his dark skin.

He considers going to bed earlier than he does already. The thought perishes nearly as soon as it manifests - more time with his nightmares does not equate to more rest.

He yawns and walks across the carpet to their bed. Wash has a look about him, open and warm and longing, and when Doc finally crawls into bed, he finds himself pulled tightly to Wash’s broad chest and gets his face covered in kisses.

“Someone’s needy tonight,” he laughs quietly. Wash huffs a bit, but he doesn’t deny it, and he doesn’t protest when Doc’s hands weave patterns in his hair. He does, however, tighten his arms around Doc just a bit, frowning when he yawns.

“You’ve been tired lately,” he mumbles. Doc’s hand in his hair pauses for just a moment too long.

“Haven’t slept well.”

Wash frowns when Doc doesn’t elaborate further. “You want to sleep in tomorrow?” he presses.

“I’d rather not. I like my sleeping schedule.”

“It’s not much of a sleeping schedule if you’re not sleeping.” Wash drags his mouth across Doc’s shoulder, up his neck, and settles at the spot where his jaw meets his ear. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can sleep in. It won’t kill you.”

Doc hums, already feeling sleep tugging at him. “I’ll think about it.”

 

-

 

He wakes in the middle of the night with a hoarse cry tearing itself from his throat and an insatiable desire to consume destroy murder kill kill _kill everyone –_

And then Wash is at his side, gripping him tight, touch grounding him but only barely, tethered to the present by strong, calloused hands and holding on for dear life. He gasps suddenly, regaining lost breath so fast his head swims.

“It’s okay,” Wash tells him. It’s not okay. There’s flashes of purple behind his eyelids and a voice in his head that wants him to wreck the things he holds dearest and everything bleeds into red.

But Wash is here. Wash has died and learned to live again. Wash kisses him and holds him and tells him to breathe, helps him fight through the fog of confusion and rage that consumes him. For now, that is enough.

 

-

 

Sometimes, he dreams of space.

Except it’s not space, really. The places he saw during his time away can’t possibly be summed up by the word _space_ alone. He has seen entire lifetimes, births and deaths in the blink of an eye, all that has been and all that will be, carbon-based organisms giving way to a higher order of existence and spreading across solar systems and galaxies and transcending entire planes of existence. He has existed and not existed, sometimes all at once. He has walked in fields of nothing, dark matter stretching for entire lifetimes beyond his own insignificant body.

These are the parts of his memory where Omega cannot touch him.

He sinks into pools of potentiality and watches the birth of baby stars, of new life, new beginnings. He sinks his hands into them and draws constellations, likening himself to a god of sorts, forging new possibilities and new levels of existence he could have never dreamed of before…well. _Before_.

He blinks his eyes and wakes, slowly, coming back to his mortal form and realizing how long it’s been since he’s slept so deeply and restfully. There is a slumbering soldier draped across him, keeping him warm and safe.

Wash has his own stars, too, galaxies of freckles smeared across his cheeks, down his neck and across his shoulders. Later, when they’ve both woken sufficiently, Doc will insist on drawing new constellations into his skin with his lips. But right now, they rest.

 

-

 

He punches a hole in the wall after he knocks his own mug of tea over.

He doesn’t remember it, but the aching bruises on his knuckles and the broken door tell him everything he needs to know.

 

-

 

There is no word for what he is, what he has, what he is living. What Wash is living, too, in his own way.

There is no word for the condition of having your brain torn apart and rearranged to fit around fragments of artificial consciousness, and there is no word for the emptiness it leaves behind. There are no special names for the synapses ravaged and left to fester and scar over, for the pits left in his memories and filled with a rage so blinding it leaves him with lost time.

Wash mentions post-traumatic stress, anxiety, depression, and paranoia. Doc is intimately familiar with the way they manifest in the soldier. He finds himself utterly unprepared for the way they take shape within his own head.

 

-

 

“It’s Omega.”

Doc lets out a yelp of surprise from his place at their windowsill, where he’s been spending a quiet morning knitting – something Donut taught him back in Blood Gulch. He could have sworn Wash was in the kitchen just moments prior, making coffee and tea for their breakfast. He forgets, sometimes, just how quiet Wash can be after years of service as a freelancer.

“Isn’t it?” Wash prods again. “You rarely had nightmares, before. Now you have them almost every night.” His grey eyes are wide, like he’s just made the most profound discovery in human history, but they never leave Doc’s face. “You’re angrier now. Not that you were very angry before, but…”

Wash waves his hands around, the way he does when he’s searching for the right word or phrase and it’s just out of reach, like he can pull it out of thin air and be perfectly understood. Doc knows this mannerism well. Sometimes, he does it too, when his thoughts grow heavy in his mind and become so muddled they can’t quite crawl out of his mouth in any logical way.

“You’ve never been so vengeful. Not like…” Wash swallows. He’s uncomfortable. “Sometimes I wondered if it was my fault, you know? Like years of being such a bitter asshole to you and the reds and blues had somehow rubbed off on you.”

Doc’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. He rises and walks to Wash, but he’s unable to really look him in the eye. “You’re right,” he whispers. “It’s Omega.” He reaches for Wash’s hands, calloused and scarred over but so perfectly warm and tender when they need to be. “He was here before any of us knew about you. It’s not your fault.”

Wash almost looks more discontent now that he’s been proven right, but he pulls Doc into his arms all the same and brushes the dark, curled hair from his eyes. “You haven’t slept,” he continues, and it’s not a question. Still, Doc nods in confirmation. Wash’s thumb brushes the dark circle beneath his left eye. “How long has he been back?”

Doc hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“Frank, please. How long?”

“…A few months.”

Wash flinches like he’s been struck. “A few _months_ _?_ Fuck me backwards, you didn’t think to _tell me?”_

Doc’s hands fist tightly into Wash’s shirt, and he begins to tremble. “So you could leave me behind like everyone else has? So you could call me crazy when I begged you to come back?”

Wash breathes out a soft _Oh_ , so low that Doc almost misses it. He doesn’t miss the way their foreheads touch when Wash leans closer, or the warmth that shoots through his arm a moment later, up through their tightly linked fingers. He lifts his gaze, finally, dark brown eyes meeting Wash’s light grey ones.

“You think I’d do that to you?”

His tears fall, then, the first of many. There will be more. For now, Wash does his best to wipe them away.

 

-

 

His own pain makes it difficult to remember that, sometimes, Wash still has horrible days of his own, when the remaining Epsilon fragments burrowed deep in his mind rear their ugly head and leave him almost incapacitated. They sleep in bed together all day and wake up at night to count the stars over chamomile tea – the only kind they both drink.

 

-

 

Wash pops a piece of bread in the toaster and pours himself a cup of coffee when he feels Doc press into his back for a hug. He smiles and chuckles a bit. “You’re up early today.”

“Slept all right last night. Boy, I miss having regular waking hours.” Doc kisses his bare, freckled shoulder. “You?”

“Feelin’ good.” Wash taps his foot impatiently as the toaster heats up. “Not gonna rain today. Wanna go out?”

“Sure. Might as well do something while I can.”

 Wash snorts. “You sound like me now.” The toast pops up – barely even browned, just the way he likes it – and he pops it in his mouth and turns to face the shorter man, saying something muffled by the food in his mouth.

Doc frowns. “Run that by me again?”

Wash swallows. “I said, it sounds like you’re starting to adapt to…” He waves his hand in Doc’s general direction. “All this.”

“Oh. I suppose.”

They’re both quiet while Wash finishes his toast. Doc shoves a banana at him, and Wash takes it without a word – he knows better than to argue when Doc insists that he eats more for breakfast than barely-browned toast.

“Does it go away?”

Wash stops his chewing for just a moment. “Does _what_ go away?”

“You know.” Doc pauses. “This…thing. Omega.”

“Well,” Wash starts slowly, after swallowing a bite of banana, “I don’t really know.” When Doc frowns, he elaborates. “I mean. I guess Carolina and I are the only ones left who even remember all the shit that went down. Even her AI held it together better than Epsilon did, you know?”

“But Carolina still has issues.”

Wash shrugs noncommittally. “We’ve both got enough post-traumatic stress to last ten lifetimes. But it’s not the same. Having an artificial intelligence spiral out of control in your head is…”

He trails off, his face going blank as he loses himself in his memories for just a moment. Doc reaches for his free hand and gives it a squeeze, then a kiss, just on the inside of the wrist. “Stay with me,” he whispers, and he tilts Wash’s head down. “You’re here now, you’re safe, it’s just you and me.”

Wash blinks once, twice, and releases a breath. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” Doc gives him a sad smile. “I know.”

“I guess you do, don’t you?” Wash chucks the rest of his banana in the garbage and pulls Doc to his chest. The medic is warm and soft against him; he smells faintly of the tea he drinks each day – oolong? green? Wash never remembers – and the flowers he tends to so often in their garden. It’s less often, now, but the scent remains all the same.

“Frank,” he whispers, pressing kisses to his black curls, “It’s never left me. It’s gotten better. But you’ve seen me. I still have bad days. Still have nightmares.”

Doc tenses in his embrace, but instead of pushing away, he fists his arms into Wash’s grey tank top and buries his face in his neck. “But Epsilon was unstable,” he mumbles. His voice is shaking. Years together have taught Wash that he’s close to tears. “Omega was…”

“None of them were ever as stable as Alpha.” He kisses the shell of Doc’s ear. “I don’t know what will happen with you, not for sure. I just…I want you to be prepared.”

Doc’s silent for a bit, but his grip never falters. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t fight it. Fighting it makes it worse.” Wash hums to himself. “We need to stock up on pain medicine. Sometimes an episode can leave you with the worst migraines.” He lifts Doc’s chin and catches his gaze, and his heart sinks when he sees the medic’s eyes swimming with tears he’s trying so hard not to shed. “And when it gets bad, tell me. Please, talk to me. I don’t want you to do this alone. Not like I did for so long.”

Doc slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that flies, unbidden, from his lungs, and Wash holds him close again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this chapter was going to be the last, but i had some issues working out the tone of the ending, so it will be its own chapter after this.
> 
> there is some nsfw content in this chapter, but there's little of it and it's not very detailed.

Once, he rose cheerfully and willingly with the birds, singing a distant and foreign song no less lovely than the ones near his childhood home. He would yawn, sated, and rub the sleep from his eyes, press a kiss to Wash’s brow, and coax him from their bed to start the day, each waking moment  a new opportunity for joy.

Now the tune tears him, reluctantly, from his bed, each day a new struggle, fresh pain in the back of his head and heaviness in his heart.

-

The planet they’ve called home for some time now has three distinct seasons: hot and dry, hot and wet, and – Doc’s personal favorite – cool and rainy. It’s the rain that puts him to sleep, now, and it’s what he greets most mornings, including this one. His bed is a shade too cold; Wash’s side is empty and already made up. He shifts slowly, careful not to aggravate the throbbing in his head, and finds a mug of still-warm tea waiting for him next to two small pills on his bedside table. Wash has been in here very recently.

With a yawn, he pulls himself up and takes each one. They leave a bitter aftertaste – disgusting, but worth it in the long run. With enough resolve gathered to seek out Wash and thank him as thoroughly as possible, he hauls himself to his feet and shuffles to the kitchen – which is, to his disappointment, empty. A moment later, however, he finds a note on the counter.

_Frank,_

_Went out for a run. Yes, I know it’s raining. Yes, I brought a jacket. No, it’s not cold enough for gloves or earmuffs._

_Back in a few._

_-Wash_

There’s a few scratched-out phrases that he can’t quite make out, but there is a small _P.S. I love you_ at the bottom that makes him smile. It’s one question answered, although it’s begun to rain so hard in just the few moments he’s been awake that he’s more than a little concerned about Wash’s attire. He walks to the small fireplace in their living room and puts another log on it with some effort – there’s still a fog in his brain, and an ache in his head, and when the fire’s regained enough life he collapses in the chair with his tea and waits.

Even when he’s away, Wash finds ways to make him feel loved. His heart swells, and a bit of tea leaks out of the side of his mouth when he grins against his mug.

 

-

 

He has little strength, sometimes, hardly enough to exist, let alone crawl from their bed.

But he thinks the exertion is worth it when he rolls onto his side in the dead of night, pressing his mouth against Wash’s jaw and shoulder as the soldier brings himself to orgasm in their bed.

 

-

 

 “You’ve been gardening.”

He wipes a bead of sweat from just beneath the black curls on his forehead, and gives Wash a real grin. “The weather’s gorgeous today! I couldn’t let the plants go another day without getting some love. It’s the first day of the warm season, you know!” He gestures to his surroundings, and sure enough, there’s a veritable horde of flowers adorning their small front yard.

Wash gives him a small smile of his own and pulls him to his feet. “It’s getting too hot out here. Come inside and clean up a bit.”

“Only if you don’t complain when I come out again when it cools off.”

Wash sighs without any real malice. “I promise. Now come inside, it’s ridiculous out here. Thought you hated the heat anyway.”

Doc chuckles and kisses Wash’s cheek. “You say that like you’ve never been to Blood Gulch before.” There’s a smudge of dirt on his face where he’d scratched an itch earlier; Wash licks his thumb and moves to wipe it away, but Doc grimaces. “That’s so unsanitary! Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth?”

Wash levels him with an amused, but somewhat exasperated, look. “You and I have literally put each others’ dicks in our mouths.”

Doc quirks an eyebrow and relents. “Point taken.”

 

-

 

He misses the way Wash would wake him with kisses out of the blue, dragging his mouth down his neck, his chest, down, down, down, and steal his breath before the sun had even risen.

 

-

 

He wakes late (at ten in the morning), agitated and fitful, Omega’s anger simmering in the back of his mind just short of a hard boil. He remembers what was done to him – no, not him, he’s a medic, not a machine. And yet it was him, wasn’t it? He can see it all in first person perspective, the helplessness, the disappointment and rage that consumes him from the inside out until he’s splitting and fragmenting and fraying at the edges.

He blinks. The clock reads two minutes past ten.

 

-

 

There is an aching sadness that sits in the empty spot that rage occupied just moments before, swelling as Wash threads soapy fingers through the curls on his head, burning its way from his eyes and down his face. He wants to enjoy this, the way Wash fumbles awkwardly with the shampoo bottle, so unused to lavishing gratuitous affection on other people even after years of having his more significantly sharp edges worn down under Doc’s care. He wants to feel grateful for the kisses in his now-clean hair, the muscled arms pulling him close, drying him off gently and carrying him all the way back to bed.

And yet all he can think of is Wash suffering alone for so long, dragging himself through life with no one to help him get dressed, brush his hair, or feed him because he’s too burnt out from keeping his thoughts straight.

His tears fall anew. Wash kisses them away.

 

-

 

He is the chip in the single fancy wine glass that Wash insists on keeping (“So I never go back to that place”); Wash is the stain heat-seared into the bottom of their teapot (“Even scarred things have value”).

 

-

 

He wakes with the sun for the first time in a long time, stretches his arms above his head, and promptly rolls over on top of Wash, still fast asleep. He wakes him with kisses, swiping his tongue softly over Wash’s bottom lip; Wash inhales deeply and opens his eyes, still a bit hazy with sleep, but warm and more alert than usual.

“Sleep well?” he asks. His voice is low and rough after a full night of rest. Doc’s lips chase the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Mhm.” He leans into the hand cupping his cheek, kissing Wash’s wrist, his palm, and finally working up to his fingertips. Wash is more than happy to let him set the pace; after months of uncertainty in the realm of physical affection, it’s almost exhilarating to bask in even the smallest kisses.

Doc catches his eyes, his gaze relaxed and just a bit needy. “Okay?” he asks. Wash nods and gives him a smile.

“Just fine. C’mere.” He draws Doc down for another kiss and shifts under him. They’re both naked and half-hard, but Doc doesn’t seem too interested in that yet, so he doesn’t push it. It feels like a lifetime since they’ve been together, sharing easy kisses without the threat of one – or both of them – falling apart looming above them; Wash is determined to make it last.

 

-

 

The radio in the kitchen is turned on more often than not, usually tuned to a local station, playing old, slow jazz tunes from Earth in years past. Doc’s usually okay with anything that plays, but when he found out that Wash harbored a secret love for a long-deceased songbird named Ella Fitzgerald, he’d insisted that they could keep the jazz playing most of the time.

He’s waking earlier, now, getting more rest each night as time goes on – though insomnia is still a frequent, and unwelcome, guest in their bed. This morning, though,  he’s awake early enough to catch the birds still singing as he brews some tea for himself; normally he’d start some coffee for Wash, but he’s not sure what time he’ll be awake.

When the kettle starts to whistle, he pulls it from the burner and pours steaming water into his cup; he flips the radio on while he lets the tea steep. The song playing is soft and slow, with little more than piano and a muted beat to accompany the singer, but it’s a nice way to start the day. There are few clouds, even in the morning; he contemplates dragging Wash out for a picnic later when it’s cool, probably early evening.

There’s a pair of heavy, sluggish footsteps behind him, and warm breath at his ear, and he shivers. “You’re up early, Wash.”

“As are you.” Wash reaches around him and turns the radio up just a bit. “Nice weather today?”

“Think so.” Doc tests his tea with a small sip – it’s still far too hot, and probably will be for a short while. He sets it down and turns to face Wash, wrapping his arms carefully around his shoulders and neck to pull him close. “This is Ella, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” There’s a bit of a smile tugging at Wash’s mouth. “Sounds like I’ve taught you well.”

“You have.”

A stretch of comfortable silence follows, offset by the music playing softly behind them, until Doc shifts to his tiptoes and peppers kisses across his freckled cheeks. “Dance with me,” he whispers into his hairline, though his tone is more insistent than a simple request.

Wash huffs a little. “I don’t dance. Never learned. You know that.” Even so, Doc doesn’t miss the strong hands sinking down to rest at his waist.

“Don’t want anything fancy,” the medic insists. “Just hold me. You can do it.”

“If you laugh at me, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Doc laughs aloud at that and kisses him on the mouth this time, smoothing away the downturned edges of the frown threatening to overtake Wash’s whole face. “Have you ever known me to do that sort of thing?” He leans closer, his hands coming down to fist tightly in the soft cotton of Wash’s tank top, and fits his head beneath the soldier’s chin. “Just like this, see? Not so hard.”

Wash huffs again, but he’s visibly less tense, and without further prompting he sways just a bit to the muted beat. Doc hums and leans against him more fully, trusting him with his weight; Wash doesn’t work out as often, or as intensely, as he used to in Freelancer, but he’s still got a considerable amount of muscle and strength, more than enough to hold all of the petite medic’s weight. And he’s _warm_. He feels like home.

“I love you,” he blurts without warning, almost as shocked at himself as Wash appears to be. But after just a moment, the surprise melts into a smile almost as warm as the rest of him, and Wash leans down for a kiss.

“Love you too.”


End file.
